" No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. "
JOHN DONNE
For the longest time, I associated the famous quote from that verse by John Donne only with a panel of the comic 'The Far Side' which, as I recall, depicted one large man floating in some water and several tiny men disembarking from their miniature craft onto him.
With age, comes a deeper understanding of the poem. In addition to that, lately I find myself living without a real sense of community for the first time in my life, which lends the words even more significance for me.
In keeping with the island theme, a week ago I finally made the time to visit Vasilievsky Ostrov - the largest of the many islands which St Petersburg was built on, and the island which Peter the Great intended to be the centre of his new capital city.
Church of the Annunciation - Vasilievsky Ostrov, St Petersburg
Much of the architecture here is quite old, and unique, displaying a medley of different materials and eras, design elements and styles varying every other block - often, every other building. I was struck, more than anything, by the different feeling of this part of the city, in comparison to the feeling in the centre of the Admiralteysky Rayon where I live.
It was quieter on the island. There was something rather like loneliness in the air. Empty windows stared out across the wide streets, half expectantly, half in resignation, like a dog awaiting a master's long overdue homecoming. It felt to me like the island sensed its time of splendor was over, eclipsed as it had been sometime in history by the migration of the centre from Vasilievsky to the more geographically central areas of the city surrounding Nevsky Prospekt.
As I jogged over the cracked streets, weaving through the puddles our recent thaw has produced, I felt some of the island's melancholy seep into me. It was as though the sadness, the longing for something unknown, were splashing up through my trainers from the puddles, dampening my feet, weighing me down a little more with each step.
Perhaps, it had something to do with the thoughts and worries weighing on my mind lately. This semester, I began attending the lectures with the first year students of the dance programme at the conservatory. These lectures, which cover topics like Russian History, Analysis of the Structure of Ballet, The Foundations of Choreographic Dramaturgy, and History of Western Art, are all given in university-level Russian. To my surprise, I understand much more than I expected to, but it's hugely frustrating to me to hear such fascinating subjects being discussed and being unable to participate or understand fully.
As of yet, I am not considered a "student" of the conservatory, but only a "trainee" - becoming fluent in Russian and preparing for my entry into the full programme as a proper student. This, in actual fact, is a mere technicality, and I study no differently than any other student...except that I take my studies rather more seriously than most of the others (to their amusement, I might add).
The other students seem to feel the need to remind me constantly, "you're not a first year yet, you don't need to do these things yet", "just go home, don't take this class, you're not first course yet", or "you're foreign, so you don't need to take Russian History". I go to the lectures only because I want to, because I want to listen to more of Russian language. I want to sit and take notes on new words I hear repeated frequently to look them up later and build my vocabulary, I want to sit and absorb everything the old professors have to give. I've explained this, but it's still hard for the others to grasp. I know they mean well, that they mean to set my mind at rest, by saying these things to me.
But the only effect these pronouncements have, is to deepen the sensation growing in me that I am separate, not "one of them". I am, as it were, a different species and therefore different things are expected of me. Always less is expected of me, than of Them. Go home, you're not one of Us. It's okay, don't worry, you don't need to do what We do.
"If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less..."
Community, for me, is the feeling of being an integral part of a greater whole. No one person is greater or lesser than any other, and the absence of even one member of the community is felt by all. I miss the feeling of being a part of that kind of "hive", of sharing myself with others, of asking them to give of themselves to me. I miss that feeling of someone caring whether or not I show up for the lecture, of knowing someone will call if I miss a rehearsal and tell me off for making extra work for the rest.
In the past couple weeks, I've felt a sudden urge to reach out to the Jewish community here in St Petersburg. I have long considered myself more Christian than a practicing Jew - I wouldn't have a bat-mitzvah, I haven't been to temple in years, and, worse even than eating meat in a cream sauce, I believe in Jesus. Just now, there was a sudden shuddering somewhere in Massachusetts, as several generations of Fishmans rolled in their graves.
Tomorrow, at sundown, begins Purim, which has always been my favourite Jewish holiday. Not just because the story of Esther impressed me so much as a child, and not only because of the Hamentaschen, but because there was this wonderful feeling of giving. Giving gifts of food to friends, giving to the needy, offering thanks to G-d for the beauty and strength of our Jewish congregation and community. I miss that.
Though I may not be the most kosher Jew, I have always felt a very strong connection with the sense of community that the synagogue engenders. Some of my fondest memories from childhood, are of Saturday mornings at Temple Beth Israel in Malden, MA. Listening to the prayers, wishing I could wear a yarmulka like the Rabbi's sons, running around the shul with them after the service, eating gefilte fish and horseradish (which I have loved as long as I can remember, consuming copious amounts of the spicy paste on the fish dumplings, even as a four year old). The congregation was an extended family who cared for me, and whom I cared about. They took us in when we needed help, they fed us when we were hungry, they offered us solace in times of trouble.
Where do I turn, now, in my need? Of whom may I ask for help, when the help I need is a warm hand on my shoulder?
Where do I go, to find a sense of belonging?
It's not homesickness that I feel, so much as displacement. I wander these streets, looking in the windows, searching for my place. Where do I belong? Here, in this strange, cold, foreign land? If not here, then where is my home? Under the roof of my parents' home no longer feels the same way it used to, I can no longer retreat there to live as I did before. Going back isn't an option. But where is "forward"?
What am I? Jew, or Christian? American, or Latina? Artist, or Academic? Dancer, or Choreographer? Thinker, or Do-er? Student, or merely a girl that wanders the corridors looking for the right class to sit in the back of, to listen to the lecture without understanding?
"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind..."
There is no culture in the world, to my mind, that embodies melancholy and appreciates suffering so well as the Jewish culture. Precisely why, is the topic for another, longer discussion. But that it is so, is for me unquestionable. I feel this ever present bittersweet Jewish melancholy in every part of our culture. I feel it in the mournful minor-chord music and the chanting, in the longing for the promised land, in the ever present pain of being separate from our fellow Jews, our sorrow of being so scattered.
But, despite our ever present sorrow, we hold out hope. G-d has not forsaken us. One day, we will live in the promised land. Maybe not today, tomorrow, or in this life. Nothing is easy - this we know, and this we love to complain about, with shrugs of resignations, throwing up of the hands, grimaces, and exclamations of "oy, you're telling me...". We have each other, we form our communities. We hold fast, we weather the storm.
I know I am strong. But the road is long, the trees grow closer and darker the further I journey on, and I don't know if I can make it alone. I'm not sure I want to make it alone.
I hope I can find a connection with a congregation here. If not, then perhaps I will simply create my own community over the coming years here in St Petersburg, with whomever wants to join me in creating a little warmth, a little light, a little kindness that we can offer each other as we wander on.
"Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee..."
